


naming stars

by thatsgottahurt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, idk but it's really fun so, lance is homesick (again), lance is sad again, why do i like hurting him so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsgottahurt/pseuds/thatsgottahurt
Summary: Today, Lance was quiet. He was focused, cautious, and quiet.No one really noticed, except for me.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back with more langst!! i love making him suffer i'm sorry  
> sorry for how short it is, i just wrote this out of boredom and got carried away with other things i'm writing   
> i might make another counterpart to this, though  
> also, since it's not really clear, the story is written from blue's perspective and her "observing" lance's homesickness  
> hope you like it!!

Lance has never really been one for plans, or thinking through plans. Usually, he doesn’t think, but  _ feels _ . 

He’s impulsive, reckless. Some may even call him rude. And, a lot of the times, he doesn’t realize he’s said something wrong until he’s closed his mouth.

But today, Lance is quiet. He’s focused, cautious, and quiet. No one really notices, because he’s good at pretending, but he’s still different. He’s off. 

Today, Lance misses lunch. He says it’s because he was busy showering after practice, but his eyes look bloodshot and have dark circles under them.

He doesn't make as many jokes either, and he's not as involved in conversations. He's been caught a couple of times just staring off into space, too.

He's strange today. Obviously it's nothing alarming, or Shiro would have been all over him, fussing and insisting he let the rest of the team know what was wrong. 

So Lance pretends that he's okay; it's practically second nature to him now. No one should have to waste their time worrying over him. He's just a little homesick, that's all.

Okay, maybe he's  _ very _ homesick, but it's still not a big deal. Nothing to worry about, it'll pass soon. 

Nobody questions why Lance stays up late that night, even though he's usually the first one to go to bed, and they don't ask why he sits staring out at the stars in the observatory.

Lance sits silently, observing patterns he's never seen before, counting all the stars he can see like a child counting sheep before they go to bed.

He names the biggest, brightest stars after his family. There must be a million different stars with the same name because of him by now, but he doesn't care. He'll keep naming stars until he gets back to Earth. If he ever does get back, that is. 

Lance tries to ignore the empty feeling in his chest as he names the stars. But it keeps growing and growing until it reaches his gut and pushes against his lungs and suffocates him, and soon he's crying. 

His mouth opens but no sound comes out, and the silence is overbearing. Something so painful shouldn't be so quiet. It feels wrong. It hurts and he can't even do something as simple as breathing anymore because of how his throat is closing in on itself and his chest is tearing him apart. He’s more alone than he’s ever been before, and it’s more painful than he ever could have imagined it to be. 

Silent sobs shake his body as he clenches onto his shirt and tries to hold onto something,  _ anything  _ that will keep him grounded. In that moment, he thinks of getting somebody, maybe Hunk, so he won’t be so alone. He stops himself, though. Everyone has the same problem. Everyone on this ship has a family to miss and to cry for.

“You’re not  _ special _ ,” He chokes out to himself, “you can handle this  _ on your own _ .”  _ No I can’t _ , he thinks, but he shoves the thought away and tries to calm his troubled breathing. His hands shake as they move up to rub his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his loneliness and pushing his memories away to replace them with a mantra of subconscious self-hate.

He sits, quiet once more. But his hands still tremble as he pulls his jacket tighter around himself and presses his palm against the glass.

It's like ice, cold and smooth, and it sends chills down his spine. But the cold doesn't matter, because the feeling is nice compared to the tearstains burning his cheeks. 

He shivers.

Today, Lance was quiet. He was focused, cautious, and quiet.

No one really noticed, except for me.

  
  
  



End file.
